lostepistles

[lostepistles]

have you ever deeply wondered what death tastes like?

are you wondering what death tastes like? does it taste sweet like the freshly baked cookies in the morning? or does it taste like the traces of scent when the rain stops in the evening? . . . or does it taste like the silence of the ocean, a flavor that lingers on the burnt tongue, a reminder of what's lost forever? the old lady from the street says it tasted like the last leaf clinging to a barren branch of hope holding on to life's fading thread. the brokenhearted man says it has the bitterness of tears shed for what's to come and the numbness of a heart that's stopped beating. my old self whispers, it has the essence of lost moments, of farewells left unspoken, of memories that linger like the scent of smoke on a winter's twilight. but what does death taste like?

perhaps, death tastes like the fragments of our former selves, the ones we abandoned to ruin, the parts of us that have died along the way. it's the dreams we let go of in the morning spring, the loves we lost in the ocean tides, and . . . the versions of ourselves we shed like autumn leaves on a november night.

[lostepistles]

poets don't die; they grieve with epistles rotting in their tongue.

poets don't die with their ribcage open, exposing the bones and flesh of their ancestors; instead, they grieve in unshed tears of yesterdays, with epistles rotting in their scraped tongues and burnt hands. they refuse to heal in the silent waters of the afternoon or in the fragile wisps of dandelions. grief is what keeps them alive; it's their lifeblood that chains them in literature and society for centuries. they spent every breath learning the languages of the gods and carved them on a tombstone of promises that was neglected by naked eyes. they grieve as they stand at the threshold — alone, watching the parade of strange faces in 13th street pass by. they're reminded of the ones who never stayed, the ones who left without a word, the ones who were lost in love to the passage of time. they do not die; they grieve to remember.

they linger in the trunks of gnarled trees, where they hang their words like lanterns crafted from the skin of moonlight and verses of salvation. and as the wind stirs the leaves, the words sound like a mother's humming lullaby that wanders through the ages, a reminder that poets don't die — they simply become the whispers of the past, and a beginning of another grief is set in their palms.

[lostepistles]

my two worlds tangled: to live and to rot. and so, i'll breathe in both.

as days unfold, the raindrops whisper secrets on my windowpane, a haunting melody that echoes like a chime at 12 midnight. it whispers the memories of every flower pressed between book pages, a delicate keepsake that holds a thousand memories. it remembers my cigarette ash-stained fingers for the gentle pressure on the pages, the discreet placement, and the subtle twist of their spines. the scent of those petals felt like rebirth, yet cigarette smoke will surely wither my lungs. clouds born from my cigarette caught me in the middle of nowhere with my worn-out ruby shoes, weary from wandering in the emptiness of my void as if it's the end of my life string. just when i thought all seemed lost, the stitches between my two worlds tangled: to live and to rot. sinking into my mother's couch's worn upholstery, my fingers hover over the skeins, hesitating to pull, for life has always been a ball of yarn, and unraveling every yarn breeds catastrophe. and so, i'll breathe in both: to live gently in the fragrance of petals where vines entertwine like lovers and to rot slowly in a haze of cigarette smoke, where the air is thick with the bones of the dead. for in the collision of these two worlds — the tender and the toxic, the beauty and the bane, i found a strange harmony, one that defines me, and one that haunts my soul.

[lostepistles]

i'll wait three seasons to watch you bloom under the ocean-blue sky.

i've always been soft for you, soft like a pillow abandoned in my grandmother's attic. the place reminded me of our old memories between secluded cabinets covered with the dust of time. spiderwebs, bugs, white cloths — it's now only a stained memory from my vintage dress that later became your art. it holds memories; my dress holds your unforgettable scent. the creaking floorboards beneath my feet, sunlit dust dancing in the air, and the scent of old books — nostalgic, isn't it? that's our old stomping ground. a stale, dried-up glass of milk sat untouched, is still in the corner of the room. time has a way of smoothing out the rough edges, but the imprint of your presence remains, and still, i'm soft for you. the scars from those reckless childhood days — the scraped knees from ignoring your warnings not to climb the tree — have healed into a lasting scar.

my mind still replays a glimpse of your warm smile behind the sheer, fragile curtain. it's like a dewy-kissed morning in spring peeking in my winter season. soft sunlight, well-watered gardens, gentle warmth — that's you. spring is you. and i'll wait three seasons just to watch you bloom under the ocean-blue sky.

[lostepistles]

i am your daughter, your sculpture chiseled from the marble of your grief.

"mother, the wound won't heal."

a thought i have buried beneath my tongue, lodging it deep within my throat. your words are a hurricane that shattered the walls i built to protect this shallow heart, but you inflicted venom in my blood that even the gods cannot siphon out. you relentlessly pour salt in my garden of wounds, expecting it to bloom with strength — but mother, it won't heal; my petals will only wither and die. torture won't make me stronger, mother. you're only creating a beast. your torment is a labyrinth with no escape, a whirlpool that pulls me under, a weight that anchors me to the ocean floor, where the darkness and pressure crushes my soul.

mother, i'm not a trophy for you to display.

mother, i'm not a doll to fix and replace my parts that don't need repairing.

mother, mother, mother, your little girl begs.

i am your daughter, your sculpture chiseled from the marble of your grief, yet only the stars and moon in the night sky whispered me comfort when they saw the rivers of tears carved valleys on my cheeks.

mother, why won't it heal?

[lostepistles]

it is never been the devils; it is the gods who abandoned me to ruin.

god is a traitor, a sin diluting in my mouth that the devils wished would choke me. a forbidden meal, raw and rotten like a web of tales embedded in his gospels, that festers my delicate flesh and bones — stripping an angel's golden skin to plaster the damage in my wound. despite inheriting a shard of an angel's divinity, you permit me to be seared under their scorching feathers, unleashing the dormant rage that smolders my soul.

god is a traitor, a bandit who robs innocence and fills the void with the ashes of broken dreams. it's not the devils that corrupted me, but the gods who abandoned me to ruin. i built a fortress of devotion, tempering its pillars with the scent of your commandments, yet a mere whisper from his mouth shattered me into pieces. neglected, forgotten, abandoned — i was ignored by the divine; my prayers of devotion and pleas were delivered to deaf ears.

god is a traitor, a parasite that drains the joy from my very soul. i wander and wander and wander, aimless and forsaken — left to confront the darkness of my shadows that now define me. his presence, a nightmare, taunts me with promises of salvation that even his prayer lingers like a mocking echo through my hollow chambers. i have walked the lines of my palms, the one he told me about clouds, halos, and radiance — but why is it dark, gloomy, and . . . foreboding?

god is a traitor, a sin, a bandit, a parasite — a false promise of salvation and solace leaving only shattered dreams and forsaken prayers.

[lostepistles]

the tree had seen it all and a hundred whispers had left our lips.

my palm still remembers the roughness of the tree, the untamed texture, its tortured trunk, maps of crack and crevices, branches like withered fingers. it's coarse and gnarled branches, where we carved our names, were a testament to its age; its weathered bark bears the scars of countless seasons of grief. the tree had seen it all, from laughters to tears, from childhood wonder to regret. it had felt the gentle touch of my hands, the curious gaze of wonder-filled eyes. it had watched my family grow apart. from my first steps as a toddler to the final, frail moments of a life well-lived.

the tree wasn't haunted or cursed; it's a shrine for unanswered prayers, an altar of unsaid secrets where the desperate came to rest. the rustling leaves were the soft whispers of wishes; the creaking of its branches is the gentle sigh of longing that echoed for centuries. the tree had seen it all and heard sworn promises a hundred times and a hundred whispers had left our lips.

[lostepistles]

i am my mother's rage. rage is red, and red is woman, girl.

i am the manifestation of my mother's rage, the one that could leave the ocean parched and dry, revealing a sunken cathedral of old mournings and regrets anchored by its lingering doubts. the color of my rage is red — a woman's screaming chakra, and turning twenty is the peak of womanhood, the end of honey-dewed youth, the last taste of golden nectars on my tongue, and the final bloom of my petals under the dying sun.

a woman's chakra says: cherries and garnets, blood and wines. to eat and to starve. to consume and to burn. i taste blood in my open wounds as if sundering the universe's gravity and space, and the cosmic bodies whispered, "stars are red." oh, sweet cosmics, rage is red.

to turn twenty is to get baptized by the scorching metal hand.

rage is red.

to turn twenty is to face the hunger offered by the earth's abandoned roots.

rage is red.

to turn twenty is to endure the footprints of injustice and threads of dynasty.

rage is red.

a face like a canvas of crimson fury, with the burning rage of womanhood. the blush of her cheeks, the blaze of her eyes, her jaw like a knife. announce your purity, announce your wounds, announce that you're ready to bleed. rage is red, and red is woman, girl.

[lostepistles]

life is hunger and in hunger, we feast — we bore the hunger.

life is hunger. we starve, we consume, we feast — we bore the hunger. verses in your tongue that pierced deep down to your throat are not salvation. hallelujahs in your soul but you died for sin — you ain't immaculate, woman. burn until you turn into golden ashes, wines and gold in your grave, and in ashes i will scatter you in the wind and those who breathe these cursed dust grows thorns in their lungs, enough as an ache to a poet's grief.

the holy water is not for my thirst.

the church is not my home.

the bible is not my meal.

i ain't no sacred; i ain't no holy sacrament. i speak in chains of the rotten and the dead. i breathe in the dust of the greeds sown by the hands of so-called god's traitor. i desire for an all-consuming religion. i starve, with a blood that would choke me to hell, a blood that traces the sins behind my hand. no one has savored my presence the way i hungered for dear life. life is hunger and in hunger, we feast — we bore the hunger.

[lostepistles]

you want love that consumes and my mouth is ready to devour you.

loving you within limits is like drowning in a sea of unfulfilled longing. i don't want love that walks on egg shells, in white line boundaries nor behind your shadows. my love for you knows no bounds and i would crawl back to you if the gods shackles my feet, even if the devils cut off my wings.

you said you despise the ocean, yet you desire a love that drowns you in torrid waves; a love that consume the feelings that refuses to be restrained. you want love like religion and having me as your sole believer; worshipping you until my knees become sore and red. you want love that wraps you in scorching words; have you melt in my skin while i taste every dark thought that flows in your veins. you want love that consumes and my mouth is ready to devour you.

anything less isn't love because half hearts don't beat. my heart knows no other way but to seek reverence in you. loving you a lot means surrendering my soul as an epistle of devotion. to love you less is to diminish my affection — a self-destructive act. it's like burying my teeth to sip the poison embedded in my blood.

to offer only half is asking to not entertwine as one soul because if love can't be whole — consuming, drowning, deep — then it becomes less, shallow, and empty and never a love at all.

[lostepistles]

you are the sin, i'll let you consume me for in you, i find my salvation.

forgotten shadows whisper sins that pink petals can't disguise and even its withered roots cradled the dead soul inside me. i plastered each petal in my wound for the gnawing teeth of the devil ripped my ribcage open, raw and rotten, foul and putrid and in my lungs, sins grow like a branches of tree.

sin is my vital air, my oxygen, my life. i tasted sin lurking in subtle curve of your lips. i beheld sin in your eyes that holds a cluster of stars and galaxies. i heard sin in your ethereal voice, in your laughter of bliss, and in your moan when we act unholy. for i am built to be a sinner and you are the sin.

i breathe to sin.

i devour to sin.

i love to sin.

i love to sin. i am drawn to indulge in the forbidden, to learn every curve of your body, to dance with you under an eclipse. you are the rebel, the fire in my soul, the meal in my table. you are the sin, so i'll let you consume me. let your shadows of sins wrap around me like a shroud. for in you, i find my salvation.

[lostepistles]

i'd love to be skinned if love, to you, is tatsting my flesh and bones.

i would love to be skinned if love, to you, is tasting my flesh and bones. ruin me with your sharp, pristine eyes that could slit my soul in half and mend me whole again with your tongue. show me how bloody it gets and i'll consume it as i kneel for my sins i'll never repent — but if i am to be consumed by sin, let that sin be yours until my bones become brittle; until my flesh left to rot. devour me, shatter me, consume me — i wouldn't resist, for love resides in the depth of my ruins and you find love where you are most vulnerable, like the dandelion wisps scattered by the wind.

in the stillness, i whispered your name and your name began to taste like some kind of metaphor. it has a rhythm that resonates deep within, a harmony that heals the wounds of my being; a melody of soul-wrenching sorrow that dissolves into the unbriddled happiness i've been longing for. and your name began to cradle my shallow soul inside, tracing the fault lines where i was most ruined; where the withered roots of heart gone dry.

you're my love, my beloved, my woman and i wouldn't mind being ruined if it's you that would shatter me apart.

[lostepistles]

darling, i will love you in kazakh for to love is to be seen.

darling, i will break the spine of every language carved in your mouth. i will speak the language of gods to tell you how much i love you and together we will create our own mythology.

in the ancient tongues of greece, i'll whisper my love in devotion. in the subtle curves of my lips, i crave for your affection — the one that burns, the one that devours my rotten soul, the one that speaks in riddles, the one that awaken the wildness in my soul. my whole being is drawn to you — you are my chosen abyss, a pit of despair i would gladly fall into.

in the tongues of the romans, i will worship you with the concept i made of you — i'm on my knees now, clutching my rosary until its sacred pearls slip through my fingers; until my mouth sore from the relentless murmuring of your divine prayer.

but darling in the tongues of kazakh, "men seni zhaksy koremin," means " i see you clearly."

in your eyes, i see the richness of your soul, a boundless ocean of emotion. in you, i see a glimpse of the divine, a reflection of depths within you. i see you in colors, in musical notes — i see into your soul and it's beautiful.

so if i were to ask what language to speak, i will love you in kazakh for to love is to be seen.

[lostepistles]

the collector has come to strip your delicate flesh and feathers.

oh, sweet angel, the collector has come to strip your delicate flesh and feathers. find the sacred space god has given between your palms. grasp and feel its presence — you are not alone. in the hollow of your hands, his sanctuary awaits. from then,

you must not concede.

you must not tremble.

you must not fear.

you were chosen to be their sacrificial lamb, a vessel to quench their dark thirst. you were the feast they'd been salivating, for their rotten veins has been consumed by an insatiable hunger. let them run after you, but you must not yield. let their teeth grow longer until it pierce their skin, like a snake devouring its own tail.

for you are the god's favorite poem, a divine masterpiece, a holy verse. let them waste their breath interpreting every word that the saints carved in your skin but do not let them seize your flesh to satisfy their hunger and your delicate feathers as emblem of their disdain.

[lostepistles]

maybe that soft girl inside me just wanted a taste of love, again.

maybe that soft girl inside me just wanted a taste of love, again. a love that burns when it brushes against my skin. a love that swallows me whole with the warmth of your embrace. a love that gasps for air for you made flowers grow in my chest. a love that calms the raging storms that ruins the peace in my head.

a love you once made me feel when i was in your arms, as we etched each other's names into our hands.

darling, you brought me a garden when i was building my own grave. you reached for my hand with tenderness when i was consumed by grief and despair. you painted my soul in colors only my pristine eyes can perceive; you painted my life with the shades of brown, not because it's my favorite color but because you gave me comfort i had been yearning for. i feel safe in your presence; your name is where i find my home. saying your name feels like a prayer, one i could repeat endlessly until my mouth sore.

you built a world for me, only to witness it being shattered by you.

i found you when i wasn't looking for love and you left me when i loved you the most. i'm always soft for you and what i loathe for being soft, even if you had left me for years and come back knocking on my door, i would still open — unfurling my arms for hug, for you were once my home.